


Auto-Exhaustive Asphyxiation

by De Orakle (Delphi)



Series: Kinks [1]
Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Breathplay, M/M, Sex Education, Smut, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-09-30
Updated: 1999-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-12 05:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/121125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Delphi/pseuds/De%20Orakle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Auto-erotic asphyxiation: - <i>kink</i>. depriving oneself of oxygen to heighten arousal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Auto-Exhaustive Asphyxiation

"...No, Brian, it has absolutely nothing to do with car fumes." The wry tones rang out over the near-empty squadroom, causing Brian Cassidy to wince. Apparently seeing the younger man sink further into his desk chair, John Munch softened the edge of his words slightly, from flesh-wound level down to papercut. "From Latin, auto, meaning 'of itself.'"

"So, it's choking while..." A faint pink blush tinged the young detective's fair skin.

"...while choking the chicken," John finished, a half-smile playing on his lips, eyebrows waggling suggestively over the frames of his glasses.

"But that's—that's sick!" At his outburst, a few of the other overtime workers briefly lifted their heads from behind mountains of paperwork.

Embarrassed, Brian leaned over the desk, taking care not to stain his shirt with ink from the numerous newspapers that John kept strewn all over their workspace. He whispered harshly, "I mean, all this other...stuff you've been talking about, I mean, it's perverted. But I understand that it's not all about the sex, it's about the power trip. But why in the name of all things that are holy would someone...do that to themselves?"

Sitting back, arms crossed behind his head, John smirked. "To each his own. It's a trip, all right..."

Brian was sure his jaw dropped open.

"...or so I hear," John continued. "Think about it."

Brian's brow scrunched in confusion, the gears in his head squeaking under the strain of a busy day shift stretched four hours too long. Frustration rose in him; John knew so many things he'd never even heard of. Admittedly, they were seedy, twisted things that a good Catholic boy had no business knowing, but when his ignorance made him look like a dumb mick in court...

Hot, coffee-stale breath tickled Brian's cheek, raising the short hairs of his five o'clock shadow. He jumped, not having noticed John leaning over to his side of the desk, the older detective's face scant inches away from his own.

Brian fought the urge to shove him back, an instilled instinct held over from challenging the top dog all his life. Oblivious to his younger partner's inner machinations, John continued in a conspiratorial whisper:

"So you've got your slipknot around your neck, could be anything. Not rope, it chafes, but cord, silk, most common's a belt. Most prefer the leather, and that's called..." John prompted.

"A fetish," Brian supplied.

"So the belt's around your neck, heavy, the buckle's right in the hollow of your throat, hanging slack. You start pulling the belt tighter, inch...by...inch. The soft suede underside is pressing against your neck. The cold metal of the buckle brushing the tiniest fraction of skin along your throat is turning you on like you can't believe."

Brian licked his suddenly dry lips, mentally chastising himself for the brief flash of...whatever...that had struck his mind and areas southward. After all, he reminded himself, it was just John who was talking, no different than the daily rants about the government's latest conspiracy.

"You've got yourself going, the belt's getting tighter. The leather's warming up against your skin, the cold, hard buckle is starting to push against your windpipe. Your hand's starting to shake, but you don't want to yank the belt too tight or you might crush something vital in either hand. You start seeing spots, most likely from the lack of oxygen, but you never know..."

Another leer, and Brian swallowed hard. 'It's lack of sleep,' he told himself. 'And too much caffeine. You're not a pervert.' But he couldn't deny that the older man's words, whispered, hissed breathlessly into his ear, were having an effect on him.

"Barely breathing from your nose, you start to lose circulation in your hand until it's someone else holding the belt, someone else holding your....assets. All the blood has been forced downward, so every nerve from neck down is ten times as sensitive."

As John drew out his hissing esses, a shiver slithered slowly down Brian's back, freezing hot, settling heavily at the base of his spine. He squirmed in his seat, causing the creaky plastic chair to squeal in a sympathetic whimper.

"Your arms, your legs are tingling from loss of circulation, and if you time it right, you let go of the belt the second you, as you would say, 'reach your intended goal.' The goal-reaching, mixed with the relief of being able to take a breath into your oxygen-starved lungs, increases your pleasure a thousand-fold. An ultimate headrush in both senses of the word."

John sat impassively back in his chair, cool and collected in his mortician's suit. He was a crisp contrast to Brian's rolled-up sleeves, and hair plastered to his forehead with sticky sweat, and red-hot blush only now subsiding down his brow, cheeks, ears, neck.

"Or so I've heard," John finished, his voice now returned to its usual nasal tone. "Well, that's today's lesson. As for my tutoring fee, you can finish the paperwork on the Stead case while I get a cup of the caffeine-injected sludge that passes for coffee around here." With that, he stood to leave.

"Yrk." Brian cleared his throat. "Uh...could you get me some water?"

A raised eyebrow later, John was walking to the break room muttering something about, "John Munch, sex crimes detective and waterboy."

Brian let out a breath, ran a hand over his damp brow, and rubbed his burning eyelids with a thumb and forefinger. He shook his head and returned his attention to the folder in front of him, its contents spilled and obscured amidst the newspapers and disarrayed stack of files. His right hand slid down to his pocket, searching for a caramel amid lint and spare change while he surveyed the desk for the arresting officer's report. Still rummaging through his pocket, Brian's thumb brushed against his heavy leather belt, and he paused. He sat there for a few moments, running his thumb over its slightly roughened edge, trying to suppress the heated chill that coursed through him. Hearing the footsteps signifying his partner's return, he hurriedly laid his hand in a deliberately casual pose on the desk. He focused his sight on the illegible reports in front of him.

A cup of water was placed on a folder before him, teetering precariously on the bulky paper. Brian grabbed it, gulped the cool water down in one long pull, then crumpled the paper cup and tossed it into the trash can a few feet away. "Thanks," he muttered absently, then looked up.

John was shuffling through papers, his jacket hanging on the back of his chair, glasses sliding down the prominent nose. Brian simply stared, trying to reconcile the man before him with the whispers still echoing through his mind.

"Hey, thanks, partner," Brian said clearly, "I mean it."

John gave him a long, odd look, then returned to his quest for the elusive eyewitness account.

Keeping his gaze on his partner a moment longer, Brian tried to work through the jumbling of his head, trying to verbalize his shifting perspective. It was too late though; he was utterly exhausted. He extinguished all work-unrelated thoughts from his head and focused at the task at hand. Still, in the back of his mind, a tiny flickering spark still persevered, merely awaiting the proper kindling to blossom into burning hot flame.


End file.
